Riddle appears stealthily as a fox through the thicket to collect the supper he’s been promised. Ada is caught off guard and puts her hand to her throat.
“Scared me, there,” she says. “Maybe make a noise so I know you’re coming.”
“Sorry, Miss Weeks—Miss Ada. Will do, next time.”
“Here, see what I caught.” She leads Riddle to the shallows near a clutch of reeds. A large cutthroat trout nestles in two inches of clear mountain water. She had thought about taking a stab at fileting it, but left it for Riddle. She also has to admit she’d forgotten to ask for a match.
“You mean, you’ve been living in the dark for two days and nights? And no fire neither?”
Ada nods. “I’ve got a lot of learning to do. Been like a cow on skates these last couple of days.”
“Now that’s one I haven’t heard before, and I thought I’d heard it all.”
“Spare me a match, and I’ll get a fire going.”
She lays the fire carefully, the way Ma Breen taught her, using a stick to dredge a small trench and layering small sticks and dry leaves as kindling. She strikes the match and ignites the tinder. With slow, careful breaths, she coaxes the fire to life. She adds larger sticks and soon has a steady fire.
Riddle cleans the trout. Ada watches from the corner of her eye. When he finishes, Riddle threads the fileted fish on a green willow branch and brings it to Ada. “Like the Indians do it,” he says.
Ada holds the stick about eight inches from the fire and turns the stick slowly. A slight wind picks up, and she moves to set her body between the gusts. Tonight, she doesn’t want dirt mixed in with the meal. “We’ll be having wild onions, too, and the last of Salina’s cornbread. I’m sorry it isn’t grander.”
“I don’t eat grand, Miss Ada. We were spoiled at Fort Sutter for a few days, and don’t think I wasn’t grateful. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten that much that when I did, I wasn’t a-right the next day. Not saying I couldn’t get used to it. Like going to Salina’s. I take an invite there anytime it’s offered. Don’t happen to have any honey, do you?”
Ada shakes her head.
“Reckon I’m pretty well set for the rest of the spring,” Riddle says. “Got my share of deer meat hung, but I’ve been known to eat rabbit if I’m desperate. This time of year, I count on early salmon and this here trout.” Riddle bites into the fleshy, charred fish. “I’m curious how you snared this one.”
“Used my hands. Didn’t have anything in the way of a fishing pole or line. I’m sure you would have had quite the laugh if you’d seen me thrashing about after that trout. Especially when I landed on my backside.”
Riddle shakes his head. “I would’ve given a week’s wages to see that. You’re really something, Miss Ada. Really something.”
“Thought you said you were heading out of here,” Ada says. “Wasn’t that what you said?” She doesn’t know how she’ll react to his answer.
“Thought so, too, until yesterday. Here, look at this.” Riddle pulls out a handkerchief. He unwraps it with care. Inside is a rough nugget, streaked with gold.
“Is that . . .?”
“Sure of it. Found it right in front of my place. Haven’t told anyone yet, not even Rufous. Might be staying on after all. Our secret?”
At first, there are excuses for Riddle’s visits: How is she doing and does she need anything? And look here, see what else I’ve found. You should be looking, too, Miss Ada. I’ve an inkling these creeks are plumb full of it.
After a few weeks, excuses are no longer needed. Ada enjoys Riddle’s company, rough as he might be. There’s a tender side emerging, and for that, she’s grateful. Riddle makes a habit of always bringing her something: more matches or a second tin mug, so he can beg a cup of coffee when he’s here.
Ada pries for information. Where had he been born and raised? What about his parents? Siblings? Had he had any formal schooling? Northern Wisconsin Territory, he says. Been a miner, a trapper, an Indian scout. No, never attended school. Whatever formal schooling he lacks, he makes up for in ingenuity and industriousness. There is nothing the man cannot do.
Well, maybe except read.
Ada makes a mental list of questions she needs to ask him. It is a slow process, this homesteading. Riddle teaches Ada how to trap squirrels and rabbits, track deer, and read the weather. He places his rough hands over hers as he instructs her how to use a saw.
Ada picks up the saw and resumes the task she began the day before, hewing logs for the lean-to. Ada has grand plans for the addition. She’ll buy a couple of pigs, a goat, and a brood of chickens. She has already fashioned a coop in her mind, and has become so proficient with the saw she won’t have to ask for Riddle’s help to complete that project.
What would Augustus and Inger think if they could see me now? Ada shakes her head. Inger would surely cluck—she could worry about a single raindrop, let alone imagining a life alone in the woods. But Augustus would be proud of her thrift and ingenuity. “Vy, you’re a proper Norvegian,” he’d belly laugh.
When she goes to Sutter’s for supplies, she’ll have to beg for credit, but she’ll be good on her word. Old Sutter will get his return in bacon or furs or pies. She is also anxious for news of any of the emigrants. When did the Breens arrive? And Mr. and Mrs. Donner? And what has become of her friend, Mary Graves? Virginia Reed? And little James Eddy? It’s as if the whole journey west is a blur of getting up and getting moving and getting supper and getting to bed, without a lot of loving squeezed in. Did I do everything I could have? Show Simon enough affection when he hurt his leg? Or Eddie, when he broke his? Or Miz Donner, for all she did for everyone on the train? Or help enough with Miz Eddy? Or Ma Breen? Or did I walk through the days without feeling? Just getting on?
Her mind wanders. Ouch! The saw nicks her thumb, and she winces. She drops the saw and brings her thumb up to her mouth. Blood dribbles from the wound. The cut is not deep, but smarts. Ada hurries to the creek and lets the cool stream water run over the wound until she can’t see any more blood. Cottonwood snow drifts through the clearing and settles on every surface, an echo of winter. Ada returns to the cabin and wraps her thumb in strips of cloth. There will be no more sawing today.
Instead, Ada sets about to bake a pie. She measures flour and cuts in lard and uses her good hand to roll out a ragged crust. She dumps the remainder of yesterday’s first blueberries into the pie shell and crimps the corners of the crust. Riddle says blackberries and boysenberries and raspberries follow blueberries. “As sure as day comes after night,” he said. She will never want for pie.
While the pie bakes in the Dutch oven, Ada lies in the grass and daydreams. She dozes off, and wakes to the smell of burning food. “Dash it all!” You can put boots in the oven but it don’t make ’em biscuits. It’s not even noon, and her day is a bust. Well, she didn’t promise God not to swear.
Ada takes a plug of tobacco out of her precious stash, and even though it isn’t a Saturday, she pops it into her mouth. Tobacco juice spills from the corners of her mouth and drips onto the front of her dress. She spits into a tin cup. She needs a new apron, but doesn’t have fabric. She adds fabric to her long list of supplies. All afternoon, Ada watches for Riddle, but he doesn’t come.
Before dark, Ada goes outside to gather up enough wood for the morning. It takes her longer than usual. Her hand stings from the wound and makes lugging wood more of a chore. She uses her good hand to pick up three logs and uses her bum hand to steady the pieces against her chest. She sidles up the porch and drops the load under the eaves to keep it dry. She nudges the door open with her elbow and hip.
Day surrenders into night. Ada picks at the middle of burned pie and calls it supper. She doesn’t bother to get undressed or light the lamp. As she climbs under the blanket, she listens for the night sounds to begin. The screech owl. The rustle of wind in the treetops. The distant howl of a coyote or yelp of its prey.
Why did I survive? Ada has suppressed her thoughts since arriving at the creek. Pieces of memory flitter through her jumbled mind. She cannot think in any linear fashion. Bits and pieces of delight and horror swirl together in a phantasmagoria of memory. I’ve got to be kind to myself, she thinks. I’ve got guilt enough for making it through.